Mark Carver - The nurse_s hot itch

In spite of her squeezing thumb and forefinger on his rod, Benson felt his load beginning to boil up. Distraction! he remembered. To his male patients who came too quickly – and there were plenty of them who admitted to premature ejaculation after their wives dragged them in forcibly – the young psychologist advised them to concentrate on anything but the pussy whipping eagerly on their rod. Do simple arithmetic in their minds, he said, think of the pile of bills at home, the mortgage on the house, anything that would bring them down. Even the worst, most revolting piece of ass they'd ever had.

And trying to ignore the passionate silken flesh of the feverish nurse beneath him, Benson tried desperately to recall the worst pussy he'd ever had. Certainly not his wife, who was a wildcat when he'd first married her and wanted to do nothing but fuck, day and night. That was the innocence and passion of young love, he thought dryly. Then he remembered.

A rich bitch in his college days, good-looking actually. All she'd done was lie there like a lamb being slaughtered, her dry cunt like a bucket of sand. Later she was caught blowing a girl in the college dorm, and this, it turned out, was her secret love. She'd gone down on practically every girl in the dorm and propositioned half of them on the campus. But for some strange reason she still sullenly allowed men to screw her. Maybe she felt she was missing out on something, or did it to keep boys dating her. And this sparked an idea in Benson's mind, a possibility for Carol.

"Can't – ooof! – can't hold it back any more, Carol! GONNA COME, DAMMIT! PUSSY TOO HOT AND JUICY! GONNA SHOOT!"

"No!" she cried, shaking her head in panic. But he'd already begun spurting his hot jism deep into her silken cunt, bursting in great gushes of come. While it flooded her eager slit, Carol began to cry softly. He wasn't the one, dammit! After all these years of frustrating torture, maybe no one was.

"Christ, I'm sorry," Benson gasped. Sorry for himself, actually, because she might not screw him again.

Her ripe naked flesh still jerking and twitching, Carol said, "That's all right, Doctor. It's an old story by now."

Benson was about to say he was more than eager to try again in a minute – hell, he'd have no trouble getting a hard-on five or six times in rapid succession with her – but his schedule was running much too late. After all, he had a whole office full of frustrated, fucked-up people out there who also needed help. Although none of them had her luscious curves or wild pussy.

He climbed off her and wiped his limp dick with a Kleenex, handing her some so she could dab at her dripping slit. "The door again, huh?" he asked.

"Yes," she sighed, trembling with anger. "The Goddamned door again!" Tears filled her lustrous black eyes as she gazed up at him. "If I don't find the answer soon, I'll end up in an insane asylum – I really will!"

He said soothing things to her while they dressed, but she wasn't fooled. She'd heard reassurances countless times before and she was more tormented than ever.

Normally, he scheduled his patients for once-a-week visits, but he told her to come back in four days. And to call him if she felt the pressure was unbearable. He started to prescribe strong tranquilizers for her, but she shook her head firmly.

"I've tried that. That's no solution, Doctor. All it does is turn me into a vegetable, and I still screw only it's not even slightly pleasurable. I feel right now that…"

She shook her head speechlessly, her eyes blazing. How could she explain the horrible frustration building up in her loins now, the furiously hot desire for an explosive orgasm, the desperate need for release. And each time she got madly aroused with sex, she got hotter and hotter, and suffered more and more afterward.

Because while the lush nurse could get aroused to frenzied heights of lust and maddening excitement, she couldn't come. She hadn't had a climax in two years, and her sex-tension was boiling up and threatening to shatter her mind, destroy her precarious sanity completely. She'd tried literally hundreds of men in the past two years, sucked and fucked so many different cocks she couldn't begin to remember them all. Some of the pricks were short and stubby, some were enormous and thick, some long and lean, some gentle, some savage, some staying with her frantic pussy for a solid hour and longer, others erupting in a minute or two.

But no one could make Carol come.

Nor could she fingerfucking herself. Or using a humming vibrator, stroking it deep into her hot cunt for two long hours and more. The effect was always the same. She got deliriously excited, madly aroused, and the more inflamed her lust the more she agonized afterward. Because her desire was furiously building up and if she didn't get release soon…

And it all began two years ago, on one bizarre night. Up to then she'd had a very healthy sex life, coming with her lucky partner in great boiling gushes, radiating with a glow of deep contentment afterward. Nor did she screw everything in pants then, either. Just men she liked. She was only twenty-three now and she faced a lifetime of frustrated horror.

Every time she was on the verge of blissful release, every single time her profound desire and lust boiled into a tremendous fire of excitement, it stopped all at once. A door closed in her mind, an eerie, shadowy door that slammed shut with frightening finality. And the door blocked out the memory of that night, and made it impossible for her to come.

All she remembered of that night was being at a wild party in Los Angeles. There were interns and other nurses and a lot of strangers, some of them natty Hollywood types, some of them hippies smoking weed. She recalled someone asking her if she'd like to attend a really wild party, and high on liquor and grass, she nodded eagerly.

From that moment on the entire night was a complete blank in her mind. She couldn't even remember who asked her to the private party. He was a shadowy figure in her mind, and ominous voice talking persuasively to her, whispering.

The ravishing nurse remembered waking in her apartment the next morning, feeling terrible. Her skin felt crawly and a secret shame burned in her, but she didn't know why because she couldn't remember. She assumed at the time she must have been drunk, but she didn't have more than two or three drinks. And you didn't get memory blackouts from grass, she knew.

And shortly after that the horror began. Two nights later she went to bed with someone she liked, and as usual got feverishly aroused. Only this time she couldn't come. That damned door slammed shut in her mind the very moment she usually started having a fierce orgasm. He tried again and again, but it didn't help. He went down on her, eating her luscious cunt for a whole hour but that only made things worse.

Ever since that night, she became a walking time-bomb of raw desire. Her sexual fuse was burning and burning and burning and Carol knew with terrified certainty she would explode any day now if she didn't get the release she needed so feverishly.

Thinking at first it was her partner, she tried screwing other men with the same result. And each time her frustrating tension became deeper and more agonizing, until she seethed with torturous passion, until she became a raving nympho.

And still she couldn't come.

Then she began going to psychiatrists. The first one listened solemnly, suggested he could make her come and tried strenuously in vain. He sent her, reluctantly, to another shrink who specialized in hypnosis.

The second one was too old and tired to try personally, but he told her she suffered from involuntary amnesia, that her mind had deliberately blocked out whatever happened that night because she felt it was so revolting and horrifying she couldn't face it.